


Recovery

by withalacrity



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withalacrity/pseuds/withalacrity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after an Entertainment Seven-Twenty in-house blow-out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bogged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogged/gifts).



The office was way too bright. All the walls were white, for one thing, and the windows didn’t have curtains. Stylish as shit but, it turned out, bad for hangovers.

Tom rolled over and collided with Jean-Ralphio’s torso. Which was useful because he needed to run an idea past him.

“Curtains,” Tom mumbled.

“Big T. You awake?”

“Curtains.” Tom said again. “Versace curtains. Business expense.”

Jean-Ralphio nodded solemnly. “I’ll iMessage it,” he said.

Tom buried his face in a pillow with Jean-Ralphio’s face emblazoned across it. Jean-Ralphio’s pillow-face looked dope because Jean-Ralphio had been hooking up with models who’d taught him how to angle his head for photographs. Tom felt bad about how much he'd probably drooled all over it in the night.

Jean-Ralphio’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. Tom groaned into the pillow and looked up.

“What?”

Jean-Ralphio’s real face was pasty-looking and his hair was mussed up. He had a twenty dollar bill with Tom’s face on it stuck to his cheek. Jean-Ralphio could learn a thing or two about style from his pillow photo.

His shoulders looked awesome, though. He had to have a personal trainer or something. No way did Jean-Ralphio’s shoulders used to look that good.

“Bro, it’s eight-thirty. We gotta clean up. Someone left a motorbike on the court. Detlef always gets in early and he’ll be pissed if he has to dribble around someone’s hog.”

Tom looked around. There had definitely been models in the bed with them last night. There’d been a party. He clearly remembered tucking a T-note into a g-string. A T-note was what they called the bills that only had Tom’s face printed on them.

“Clarice,” Tom said. “Roxxi.”

“Off the clock,” Jean-Ralphio said. “They’re sending an invoice. Clarice got a little too friendly with the cheetah, if you know what I mean.”

Tom didn’t know what Jean-Ralphio meant. They’d ordered a big cat for the party, but he could have sworn it was a puma. And it had a handler. If the cheetah mauled someone, wasn't that the handler’s problem?

“Talkin’ about my dong,” Jean-Ralphio clarified, propping himself up on one elbow and holding up a hand for a high-five.

Jean-Ralphio’s elbow was squashing the pillow with Tom's face on it. His thigh was warm against Tom's under the sheets. Tom winced.

“We need a separate room,” Tom said. “Next party. For the bed.”

Rolling around with models on a bed covered in money with his own face on it was undeniably baller. But Tom could only remember there being two models, max. And the details were foggy. He knew for sure that Jean-Ralphio was really into the bed of money. Jean-Ralphio _got_ the bed of money. The models hadn’t been so crazy about it.

“If we put it in a separate room,” Tom explained, “they’ll be more comfortable. Girls don’t want to get it on in the main party room. We need something more intimate. Seductive. Black walls. Curtains.”

“This is all gold,” Jean-Ralphio said. “I am so iMessaging this.”

Tom tried to straighten his memories into some sort of order. He remembered the thud of the bass, the pop and fizz of the champagne, and the sound of Jean-Ralphio something awesome and inspiring about dreams coming true. He also remembered the chiffon scarf he’d been wearing. He looked around at the clothes strewn around the room, trying to register where it might have ended up.

Jean-Ralphio was leaning out of the bed, groping for the iPad. Tom kept it on his desk, which was two feet away from the raised platform that they’d mounted the bed on. Jean-Ralphio was never going to reach it. Tom didn’t think Jean-Ralphio even understood how iMessaging worked.

Tom pulled the sheets over his head, sending a green flurry of J-notes fluttering across the room. The mattress shifted under him, and he figured that Jean-Ralphio was getting up and dealing with shit. That was what Jean-Ralphio was for, he decided. Dealing with shit when Tom was too hung over.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Either he was lying on a water bed or he’d drunk way too much champagne.

“Wakey-wakey Tomm-ay,” Jean-Ralphio trilled from outside the sheets. “I got a triple shot Espressocino Royale with your name on it.”

An Espressocino Royale was an accidental discovery they’d made when they’d hit the wrong buttons on the coffee maker. But some of the best inventions ever were accidental. Someone forgot to put a disc drive on a laptop? The MacBook Air was born. And an Espressocino Royale sounded a million times better than a MacBook Air right now.

Tom sat up, squinting as the glaring light of the room reflected off Jean-Ralphio’s gold lame thong and dazzled him. Jean-Ralphio passed him a mug. Tom watched his lips purse, blowing on his own coffee. Tom’s lips were kind of dry this morning. He licked them unconsciously and wondered where he’d left his lip balm.

“Out of curiosity,” Tom said. “How long did the girls stay last night?”

“Long enough, my friend.” Jean-Ralphio waggled his eyebrows. “Long enough.”

Tom nodded. “We didn’t just get drunk and forget about the models again?”

“Definitely not.”

“Because the parties are for _networking_.”

“And netting the chiquitas,” Jean-Ralphio pointed a finger at him. “Am I right?”

“Clarice and Roxxi?”

“I told you. They had to jet.”

“But I made out with at least one of them?”

“You did. It was hot. Trust me.”

Tom absolutely trusted Jean-Ralphio. He passed back his empty mug.

“Ready to get all Jean-Claude Van Damme on that Harley’s ass?”

Tom nodded. Jean-Ralphio awkwardly fist-bumped him, spilling the dregs of the Espressocino Royale as he did so. He stood up and headed for the basketball court. There was a crisp T-note folded into the back of his g-string.

Tom hauled himself out of the bed. They still had twenty minutes before Detlef arrived. He wondered if Jean-Ralphio had ever ridden a motorcycle naked before.


End file.
